LEGACY POSTS, Summer, 2020


So there are five watercolor paintings that hang in a horizontal row across my sons’ shared bedroom.  Rogan, my eldest, painted them when he was three and a pupil at a Waldorf preschool, where he was encouraged to fill the page with color.  I love that: fill your page with color.  It was a series throughout the year, so out of a collection of twenty or so watercolors, I selected five to frame.  The framer used ready made frames and wired the backs for mounting.

White frames.  They pop on the earthy brown wall.  Confidence for Ro that he is indeed an artsy dude, for at nearly eight, he’s already telling himself that his brother Shea is the artistic one and he is the sporty one.  Room for both, for more.  I aim to reinforce the inclusion right there in his Line of Sight, as the paintings hang just across from his bed.

Well, I made my spacing calculations and hammered the hooks into the wall.  And it was close.  But not “perfect.”  So I let them settle for a few weeks.  This would have driven me up the wall had it been my bedroom, but the kids didn’t seem bothered in the slightest.

Then one day, not too long ago, I was walking down the hallway towards their room, likely to put away their laundry—so much laundry—when the frames’ askewness took me aback.  Here I am in the midst of a great life Pruning and our Money Corner is askew.

So I head out to garage for the tape measurer and the hammer, already mentally calculating the energetic price of more holes in the wall and dust sprinkled all along the floorboard—plus the mental madness of trial and error.  Then back inside to measure that each frame is within a quarter inch of 68” from the ground.  Slight askewness is still... Askew.

I’m about use the hammer to rip out the first hook and nail combo, to re-nail it a quarter inch below—if the plaster will hold, for if not the horizontal spacing will be fucked—when I have the idea:


I swap a few frames a few times and then harmony is achieved!  All five exactly 68” from the ground.  Abundance is in alignment, at least from this point of view, from this Line of Sight ︎

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Thinking about how we have what we need (needs and wants are different—I know we know this it never hurts to repeat it).  Thus, how we can choose to Shop Our Homes instead of making online impulse buys.

And thinking about how we provide a home for the character traits and belief structures that make us who we are, at least on some level of our beingness.  Thus, how the decision to rearrange is ours, whether it comes via a Download or an itch we just gotta scratch.  

Pruning dead energy before a new season.

So what stays in our proverbial house?

What gets moved to the garage, or washed and bagged and donated?

Is Self Acceptance
just a mental rearrange away?

After my four days of dedicated Home/Work in a row, plus a dinner party to activate the place (and more importantly, to thank two couples who have supported me through the dark night of the soul that was my legal battle), I took an edible in my clean, quiet home.  A Saturday afternoon.  No kids.  All chores done like a good little girl. 

The aim was a little High-Level-Pattern-Sorting.

Called to share that I have set the intention to meet the teacher who will guide me through the world of psychedelics.  I have never tried a thing and now I’m like a 36 year old virgin who wants her first trip to be orgasmic lovingness.

But, an edible was what I had and what a trip it took me on.  I swear to goodness my body was taken through an (extensive) inventory of everything that I hate about myself.  Each attribute was announced before the corresponding feeling would course throughout my body.  Then, a tiny yet disarming wave of amnesia would hit, very disorienting, before the next attribute was announced and felt.  Never experienced anything like it before.  It was a very fast paced brain Pruning that seemed to last for hours, yet couldn’t have been too terribly lengthy.  I caught myself gripping onto the side of the couch to quell my motion sickness; like someone else was driving my car, even though I was in the driver’s seat.

Then as quickly as it came it went.

My home seemed to sparkle, cheesy yet true, as though some glamour had been cast upon my surroundings.  I talk about Radical Accountability—about deciding to Begin Again by turning on your Detective Eyes and seeing the present moment clearly—not through the lens of a victim or martyr—not as a tool to shame or judge yourself—rather, as a way to neutralize and keep going.  

What if this work builds to an opportunity to cross the threshold into authentic, deep and true Radical Acceptance?  Radical Self Acceptance.

Maybe you’re already there!  I am working on it, but this last round of intensive work moved the needle big time for me.

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Back to the frames... As I was walking the unused hammer back into the garage, where it lives in the top drawer of an antique tool chest that I hauled back from Brimfield eons ago, I fixate upon my beautiful (to me) station wagon.  I love my car.  I bought this car in such a serendipitous fashion, so while I do love the car, I love the way that the car came into my life even more.  Standing in the garage, staring at my station wagon, hammer in hand, and the thought flashes through my mind:

I could destroy my car with this hammer.

As I mentally calculate the monetary price of smashing windows and headlights, denting her dark blue paint, Iris—the name my car gave to herself— looks at me with a smirk:

So, do it.

And somehow knowing that I could...

    And knowing that I have destroyed so many beautiful things that I love before...

    And knowing that I posses this aspect of self sabotage (self hatred) and house it inside of my body...

    Somehow I am able to relax. 
        To loosen.

I can make room for all of it, from impulse to noticing to giddiness over my ridiculousness.  Radical Self Acceptance.

I have been way into cleaning up my life messes for a handful of years, for this August marks five years since I was booted out of my marital home, two tiny babies in tow.  No job.  Student loan debt.  Estranged family.  Impending divorce.  New to a city that I wasn’t keen on.  Goodness, it has been an all hands on deck deep clean for five solid years.  But every season of life comes to an end.  It is the way of Nature... Tao of life on Earth.

Surprisingly, yet actually probably expectedly, I have had a cloud of grief overhead.  For a month now perhaps.  You know, change is change—even when we are transitioning from what we label “negative” to what we label “positive.”  And that cloud was palpable on that clean, quiet post-dinner party Saturday afternoon.  No kids and no chores = an open window for Puzzle Building in my book.  Pop a gummy as a vehicle for Rising Above My Story—up above my little cloud—to access a cosmic Line of Sight.  Organizational junkie.

As crazy as this may sound, I have been grieving that I am no longer in chaos; no longer desire to create clouds of chaos.  Mourning for a season of life that is coming to a close, even though I am proud and grateful to cross the finish line of this long-ass race.  Have you ever raced holding two kids in your arms?  It’s a lot.  A Time Loop, an energy loop, marked as complete.

Yes, many more messes shall follow.  Yet they will be different messes.  I have built the muscle of mess cleaning and that is my big win.  I didn’t run to someone else.  I didn’t plug in the missing piece.  I burnt down all the misfit pieces and then built something new by following no one’s plan but my own.

This memorandum comes after a massive Download on my book structure.  It’s a cool challenge to write a book while mapping out a system that makes a tailored one-on-one approach generalized to the point of being educational and empowering.  Building it as I fly it, but with the aim of passing out as many keys as desired.

This work, this system of ROOM4MORE, creates a spiral.  We cycle through the stages of Heavy Lifting, of Stack the Deck, of the nest feathering sensual relaxation that is Inside/Out, to then coast along in Intuitive Alignment.  Though, invariably, the impulse to Begin Again arises.  We are humans chasing dreams.  Thus, another loop begins, albeit concentric, connected yet different, as opposed to some hamster wheel of rinse and repeat.

A spiral.
    A Snail’s Trail.

Healing cycles of abuse through beauty.

In the mourning for the chaos that I have been immersed in, comes the unfamiliar waters of a surplus of calm.  Wind and then calm waters.  So much love to you xxxmwj

PLEASE NOTE that I am in no way encouraging drug use!  Just sharing my adult choices.


So I notice this Snail’s Trail of leaking energy that happens right before one ends a pattern—right before one heals a cycle of (self) abuse with beauty.  It’s like you cannot quite nip the issue in the bud.  It—the metaphor— jumps.  It spreads.  It’s leaky.  Well, until it’s ready to wrap.


The electrical outlets in my dining room-cum-indefinite homeschool classroom have never worked.  “Never” as in the past seven months—or since we moved into the house.  Maybe they worked before that?  Must have.  So an electrician came by in his mask and booties, with an apprentice in his mask and booties, and it turns out there was merely a loose wire in there; tightened up and back up we go.

What is electricity?  

Charged energy; excitement.

This is the room in which I want to be able to charge my cordless vacuum, which lives in the garage.  I like the red wooden handle brooms in the coat closet, yet not the purple cordless vacuum.  I’m a big vacuum-er.  Although quite sad to say that my cordless vacuum has been out of commission for at least a month now.  Long story short, thanks to that warranty postcard, the replacement parts have been mailed—yet subsequently lost in the mail.  And while I anxiously await a fresh charging cord for my new battery, I am left pondering why I miss my nightly pass of my two-child crumbly place so very much?

Habitual Little Clean Freak
Sanitary Coping Mechanism
Moving Meditation
Or simply common sense in this rodent-laden canyon?

So often in motherhood, as so often in Feng Shui, I think about Dr. Suess’s The Cat in the Hat Comes Back, when that Cat battles (worsens) a moving target of a pink spot... From the tub to a dress to all over the damn house.

Familiar with the story? 

Familiar with the feeling of what we resist persists?

We are where we are.  Until we are not.  And our problems trail us.  Haunting us in a way.  Until we make peace.



So—am I supposed to stop my daily vacuum habit?  Or get a new vacuum?  Or, am I missing the point entirely?

This was no time for play.

This was no time for fun.

This was no time for games.

There was work to be done.

While the electrician was trapped in my web, I peppered him with questions, including:

Is it true that a special order dimmer is required for a three-way switch?


And he had one in his van, and was happy to install it, as his young apprentice needed the practice.  (His son!)

The kitchen has been the only room without a dimmer.  I like darkness here in Sunny California.

Control.  That semblance of control in the out of control.  Control over the desired ambient direction in the house, as the world falls apart.

The kitchen and dining room are side by side, and have a corresponding pair of 1970’s lucite light fixtures.  They’re like a funny couple, together so long that they begin to resemble one another.  I see them flanking my bed in a future pine-paneled bedroom.  Anyway, the dining room’s moody dimness had been harshly contrasting with kitchen’s one tone brightness.  And now it matches.  They seem to sing, harmonized on their parallel wiring.  Ebb and flow of intimacy, a Snail Trail for lovers.

It still surprises me how a tiny tweak can change the overall direction of a space.  Tiny one-offs tackled in tandem lead to exponential energy, hence the To Do Lists I like to compose and share.

By the way, dinner party culture is coming back.  It’s what we have.  And I think it will be delicious.  And look pretty sexy; like wearing silky pyjamas as the host kind of sexy.

And yes,
I have been thinking about the Titanic’s formally dressed diners.


Days later, the kids unplugged a lamp in the living room to try to sweep up a massive basket of Legos they had dumped onto the floor.  They have a kid-sized red wooden handle broom :)  Our new rule is you can have your toys wherever you like, as long as they go back to their homes before you head to dad’s—unless they go to the “Save Station” on the hearth for safe keeping.  It’s funny, since I made myself an office, I am so much more relaxed with all the signs of family life everywhere else.  My metallic constitution embracing patina.  Emotional Equilibrium takes many forms, right?  So, anyway, they busted the lamp’s plug somehow and now I have a lamp in need of repair sitting in my office.

our electrical Snail Trail continues

With the various electrical issues, oh, and the global pandemic, I stocked up on batteries.  Fresh double D’s in our emergency flashlight and I took it for a test spin the other night.  I have had this thing where I cannot watch scary stuff alone.  In the midst of my mellow heartbreak, I said F that and dug into HBO’s new docu-series I’ll Be Gone In The Dark.  About twenty minutes in, I was terrified, as well as terrified that The Hill clearing gardeners had left the side gate unlocked.  Turns out this dude, The Golden State Killer, liked to break into homes and leave access windows unlocked and hide ligatures around the home while casing the joint; Murder Shui??

So I’m totally freaked out and the kids are asleep and I know I have to go check on the gate if I’m to sleep at all.  Flashlight beaming while I give the handle a testing jiggle; locked.  Then consultant brain clicks back on and I shine my light across the facade of the house.  I see so much I’ve never seen before, taking a few mental To Do notes.  It’s funny, I look at homes in daylight obviously, and love to read the vibe at dusk on my evening strolls, but have never been inspired (as it isn’t likely legal) to go around shining flashlights across homes by night.  But—try it on your own home.  Your own building.  Walk About.  Case your own joint.  With love not fear. 

Please share with us what info you gather about your residence by night.  Please share with us what Snail Trail(s) you are dealing with.  Also, do you agree that dinner party culture will make a comeback?

I’m thinking back to the 1950’s, where I imagine folks would host neighbors for a backyard cocktail hour.  Had my neighbor Stella for mint tea last week... She shared there is a bagua mirror fight happening up the street, but that’s a story for another memorandum xxxmwj


Hello and good morning from my neck of the woods.  I trust this finds you safe and sound wherever you rest your head in this wild world.

My brain seemed to be writing this memo to you in my sleep, so I decided to bring it earth-side upon waking up.  I am on Home/Work day three—third day in a row over here at mine—with the focus on my earth-side... better known as The Hill. 

There is this ridiculous hill that backs my canyon home.  From all estimates, this land has not been properly cared for in years, and certainly acts the part.  Wild and untamed.  Sexy, but a little dangerous for family life with two curious little boys.

If you feel like you don’t have the time for your own Home/Work, I implore you to make the time, for that’s when you need it the most.

A sex therapist will tell a couple who isn’t fucking to Block The Time and fuck.

No, not the hottest foreplay, but it’s akin to riding a bike, and all of a sudden... you’re back in action.

The Hill is a primary reason that I decided to rent this place:

(1) to have a challenging yet cool yard for my boys to adventure upon (after years of apartment dwelling)


(2) so I could expand my home-based research to landscaping (after years of apartment dwelling)

As a serial renter in expensive AF LA, I play with the intersection of Energetic Momentum meets Sunk Cost.  Fingers crossed on this one.

Feng Shui is rooted in agrarian origins, and classic texts discuss the animism of mountains and rivers—how to peacefully co-exist with nature as you build your home—ley lines and property lines alike.  The science evolved, as science does, and now we do our best to make our homes work wherever they have landed, yet I am excited to explore the metaphors of topography in a tactile fashion.  Feels important.

You may know that my dream is to flip homes.  I already foresee a world within a world:

A mission to balance homes-in regard to their floor plans-as well as how they are situated upon a parcel of land. 

Then you know, to make them groovy... Groovy yet honest.  I aim to be a respectful renovator who preserves the character of the place.

Balance leads us to Harmony

And harmony seals the deal. 

Harmony gets us from Here, where we are, to There, where we want to be. 

If this great Hill pruning pre-paves home flipping vibes, I will be thrilled.  Though there is a pragmatic angle, which I cannot disregard, for my engineer turned mama self simply loves a pragmatic angle:

This is wild fire territory and there are big fines for not adhering to brush clearance ordinances.  So while the home owner is hemming and hawing over compliance, I paused to await alignment and then acted from that place of alignment, calling in the right gardener at the right price.  Good Timing as a lovely little bonus, as it has been heart healing to watch three goodhearted men haul away a dump truck’s worth of dead, dried matter as my own heartbreak mends. 

Out with the old.


This work works.  I know it because I live it and because I share it for a living.  I see the insane growth that follows a solid Pruning.

All the good hard stuff.

The Hill is bravely bare and I feel it.  Like a freshly shorn pussy.  The gardeners actually came back today and surprised me with some baby rosemary plants.  The nakedness must have made them uncomfortable as well xxxmwj

Mother Nature
Moving Her Furniture Around